A Study In Pink An Introspective Look
by YourLoyalBlogger
Summary: Companion to my ficlets. An introspective look into each episode. Starting with a study in pink.
1. Nothing Ever Happens, Nothing Ever Will

A Study In Pink Chapter 1

Gunfire, shouting, pain. Images flashed before his mind, a morbid video of memories not long cemented. 'Sebast-!' John leapt up from his bed panting, the images still raw in his mind. The feeling of danger and adventure still hung in the air. Then came the sudden realisation that he was back in England, he fell back onto the bed sighing and still panting from the shock in his dream. John's face screwed up, he felt like crying. The last memory had touched a nerve but he refused himself a single tear. Still ever the soldier.

His life now was boring, monotonous. Everything was grey, there was no longer any colour in his life. Everyday he did the same things, ate the same foods, walked the same routes. Nothing ever changed and nothing ever happened. Was this to be his life from now on? A never ending, repeating journey? His eyes fell on his cane and sighed. The constant reminder of his former life. He hated it, like he hated his leg, psychosomatic or not.

His therapist was an idiot. She continued to pester him to blog. As if writing down his boring life would somehow make everything all better. What a joke. Nothing ever happens to him and nothing ever would. In his mind he could not fathom someone who would want to read the posts of a man who does nothing everyday. Who feels life as stopped for him. He scoffed, letting the ridiculousness of the comment appear on his face.

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><p>Lestrade sighed. Another suicide, another press conference. He rubbed his hands together, clasping them in front of him as Agent Donovan read out her report to the eager vultures that sat in front of them. It was an unusual string of cases. Serial suicides all closely resembling each other but it didn't appear to be murder. He braced himself for questions he could not truly answer.<p>

However it seemed it wasn't just the press who were paying attention to his conference as every time he seemed to open his mouth, the entire room would receive a text. A text that simply said "Wrong!". He didn't even need to think who it would be. He knew exactly who. So did Donovan, the annoyance in every part of her features. The Detective Inspector had no idea how he did it, it was a little bit impressive even if it was quite annoying. And he knew he was going to have to contact him whether he liked it or not. This was just too strange a case which needed an equally strange man to solve it.

* * *

><p>John trudged along the same path he'd been now walking for a number of weeks. He tried to walk with determination, as if he was going somewhere important but he was only fooling himself. The ex-soldier was quite surprised to here his name spoken, so surprised he thought he'd imagined it. So he'd kept walking until the voice spoke once more. This time he decided he ought to turn and find out who was calling him. It was Mike Stamford. He raised his eyebrows. Looking back on this moment John would send a thanks into the air towards Mike. If it weren't from him he'd never have met a certain detective.<p>

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at" Mike smiled, pleased to see his old friend. "What happened?". John stared, dumbfounded. Was that a trick question? Couldn't he see? But then he supposed, people rarely saw the things that were right in front of their face. "I got shot ". They went for coffee after that, sitting on a park bench reminiscing about the old days. When he was just a doctor and not a solider and a doctor. Now he was neither. He was just John and how pathetic was that. He laughed at Mikes sarcastic comment, fondling his cane.

The conversation soon turned to accommodation. "I can't afford London on an army pension" John mused, though he would much prefer to. His own flat right now was bleak, grey and lifeless. Like himself really. Mike seem somewhat surprised. "Thats not the John Watson I know" he exclaimed. John was quick to agree, sad acceptance clear in his eyes. Yes that Watson was gone now, lost on the field of battle.

"Couldn't Harry help?". Harry? Help? Did those two words really just appear in the same sentence? John rolled his eyes, he loved Harry, he really did but things between them were just too strained at the moment. There was no way he'd go to her for help. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Mike kept talking. "I don' know. Could get a flat-share..". A flat-share? Who'd want him for a flatmate? The idea was so laughable he spoke it out loud, a forced chuckle leaving his lips. Not realising these were the words that would change his life.

Mike laughed. John stared at him, confusion filling his eyes. "You're the second person to say that to me today". John blinked. "Really? Who was the first?" Little did he know that this potential flat mate was going to change his life forever.


	2. First Meetings, First Impressions

Chapter two

Sherlock Holmes unzipped the black body bag and examined his new experiment. Molly circled him, a stupid grin on her face. She gave him the facts about the body, needlessly adding how he was nice and that they'd been colleagues. Sherlock did not want or need such useless information but Molly was one of the few people who did not treat him callously, so he smiled and reached for his riding crop.

It thrashed against the corpse, each blow harder than the last. Hidden anger and pain fuelled each blow as the crop came down against the pale skin beneath. He knew she was watching. She always did , though Sherlock was somewhat at a loss to understand why. Though frankly he could do without the obvious flirting and stupid jokes. Bad day though, yes he supposed it had been. A boring day was always a bad day. Another day where someone called him a freak was always a bad day. So he changed the subject. "I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes, a mans alibi depends on it" He pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket, writing down the notes from his experiment.

Molly was flustered. Well that was nothing new. Hair was different though. Refreshed it had she? What ever for, surely not for him, he certainly wasn't interested. "I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee." She finally got the courage to ask him. She greatly admired him, even if he was arrogant and a jerk sometimes. Aah, was she flirting again? He quickly decided to put her hopes to rest. "Black, two sugars please. Ill be upstairs" He faked her a smile, leaving her confused and disappointed.

* * *

><p>Perched over a lab table, Sherlock almost didn't hear them come in. Almost. He noticed everything. He stood, stealing a quick glance at the two intruders. Stamford and a man he didn't recognise. But one look was all it really took for his brain to start working and deducing the man in front of him.<p>

Cane, limping, a recent injury? Different to his day? So he used to work here. Most likely a doctor then. Military standing and haircut. An army doctor. War wound then. No. Not a wound. At least not a real one, or he'd ask for a chair. He must be here for a reason. Sherlock had only just mentioned to Stamford that day that he was looking for a flatmate. And now he brought over this man? Coincidence, highly unlikely. He turned back to his work.

John limped into the lab room, at first not even noticing the man inside. It was different to how he remembered it. He wasted no time in commenting this fact to Mike. His gaze fell upon the tall man, leaning over some sort of chemical experiment. Whilst Sherlock's first impression was on the tiny details, John's was on his appearance. The man had dark curly hair and the palest eyes he'd seen on a person. It gave him an other worldly quality. He was young. He looked about... twelve really. Well not really, but he had that sort of boyish face.

"Mike can I borrow your phone? Theres no signal on mine." A partial lie. Sherlock mused that if this man was indeed a potential flatmate, he would like to see just what sort of man he really was. And he wasn't disappointed. He was certain Stamford did not have his and of course he was quite right. And even though he was hoping for it he still couldn't contain the flick of surprise when the ex-soldier handed him his own phone. No one ever gave him their phone. Granted most people he knew hated him. And he was sure that Molly would give him her's in a heartbeat. But at least this also gave him an opportunity to examine the phone, learn what he could before handing it back, to this John Watson. And it was through handing it back that he found the last piece of the puzzle. He gave a slight smirk. He did like this bit.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He quickly typed his message and pressed send, his attention partially on the now confused doctor beside him. John stared at Stamford, then back to the other man. Wait, what did he mean? "Sorry?". "Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" Was he asking...no, how could he know that? Unless of course...he glanced at Stamford, his mouth open in surprise. Why would he tell a perfect stranger? "Afghanistan, sorry how did you know?" His question cut off as a young woman entered the room, brandishing a cup of coffee. Oh Molly, Molly, Molly. She'd removed her lipstick. Still he couldn't resist teasing her, pretending to be confused as to why she'd changed it. Aaaand success, there was the 'did he really notice' face he was looking for.

He somewhat enjoyed the look of confusion that was slowly clouding John's face too. "How do you feel about the violin?" Better start right off the bat. His former flatmates never lasted very long, he better at least let this man know what he was getting into. John turned to watch the girl leave the room. Ok, so he's asking me then. "Sorry what?". "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for hours on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He smiled but John suspected it wasn't a real one. But how did he know...? He stole a glance at Stamford. Of course he must have told him before they arrived. "Are youµ? You told him about me?" Mike shook his head, straight-faced, he knew what was coming next. "Then who said anything about flatmates?" How else could he have known? Sherlock turned his back, packing up his things. "I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Not a difficult leap." John stared at his feat. Right ok. "How did you know about Afghanistan?" But Sherlock ignored him and kept talking.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Riiight. Riding crop? Seriously? What he says all this and just expects John to be his flatmate? Just exactly who did this guy think he was?

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" Sherlock was the confused one now. He stopped in his tracks and turned around to regard the man behind him. "We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat." "Problem?" Sherlock's brows furrowed. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name." And you just expect me to become your flatmate. Seriously though, did he think John was an idiot. He smirked at Mike, not able to believe the attitude of the man in front of him. But Mike knew what was coming next and said nothing.

Sherlock's gaze changed, his quick eyes analysing everything in front of him once more. In nanoseconds he came out with the man's life story. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of himµpossibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." Intriguing, they had something in common, they didn't get along with their siblings. His mind whirled as he pieced together everything and blurted it out to its owner. The detective stared down at the cane that John was leaning heavily on. "And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He watched the emotions flit across the other man's face. John was floored, shocked and speechless. And curious. How was it in a few short seconds there had been some spark of colour in his life? This man was something different. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon." Sherlock gave the other man a wink, there was something about John he liked. He wasn't sure what, friendships had never really been his area of expertise.

And then he was gone. Mike gave him a wave and met the eyes of his old colleague. "Yeah. He's always like that." John was still speechless. Just what or who have you gotten me involved with, Mike?


	3. Oh God Yes

Chapter 3

John had returned home, back into his colourless, grey life. As he sat on the bed, he became curious as to what this… 'Sherlock' person had sent via his phone. He took it out and stared bemused at the message. 'If brother has green ladder, arrest brother'. What the bloody hell did that even mean? Who was he? What was he? Determined to find the answer he limped over to his laptop and typed in his name. The Science of Deduction.

He arrived the next day, in Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes it seems was not far behind him. Wearing the exact same coat and scarf as yesterday. Sherlock was slightly surprised to see John standing in front of his door. He hadn't been entirely sure he'd take him up on the offer. The fact he did only increased his interest in this doctor. Mr Holmes? No no, if this was to work he'd rather be called by his first name. "Well this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." It certainly looked expensive to him. Would he even be able to afford it? His fears were swept aside as the other man assured him he'd gotten a special deal from the landlady. For…for getting her husband sentenced to death? Sherlock had given him another knowing smile. This one seemed less fake than the previous ones.

The door opened and a lady dressed entirely in purple opened her arms and invited Sherlock in. He wasted no time in hugging her. Mrs Hudson was another one of those people who treated him well. She really was the closest he had to family, well at least the closest he allowed himself to consider as family. She adored him, and accepted him quirks and all. Together the three of the entered the flat and climbed the 17 steps to led to their rooms.

The living room was spacious and very messy. Papers and bits and bobs were strewn across the room, like some decorating tornado had blown through. There was a skull on the mantle. A skull! And the kitchen had obviously been used as a makeshift chemistry lab. Well this would be very nice once it had all been cleaned up. Sherlock seemed to agree. However… wait, he went ahead and moved in? This mess, it was all his? What did he just open a box and throw things in the air and let them stay where they fell?

Oh. Oh! Sherlock hurried over and tossed several papers into a box. He wanted this to work, so he quickly offered to clean up if John wished. Which wasn't something he would normally do. At all. For anyone. He took several letters and placed them on the mantle piece, stabbing them in place with his knife. Yes nothing strange about that. John still couldn't get over the fact that there was a real, bloody skull, on the mantle piece. "Thats a skull". Sherlock glanced over. "Friend of mine… when I say friend…"He left that sentence hanging. He didn't have friends, it was sort of sad that the skull might be the closest thing he had to one. John was thinking much the same thing as he watched the curly haired man wander around the room.

"What d'you think then, Dr. Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms." Mrs Hudson gave John a knowing smile. She was pleased that Sherlock may have found someone. She had long suspected he had that inclination. Sherlock ignored her, he really didn't care what people thought about him. He picked up the union jack cushion and placed it on one of the chairs. He suspected John would need to sit down. Perhaps that would make it more comfortable for him.

John stared. He was straight, why did she think otherwise? "Of course we'll be needing to bedrooms". Mrs Hudson didn't seem very convinced and she hurriedly explained that the woman next door had 'married ones'. Its almost like she wants the two of them to be together. Mrs Hudson ventured into the kitchen, tutting as she went. "Oh Sherlock, the mess you've made" She reprimanded the young man with a disapproving expression. As if he was her son and she his mother. John decided to sit down, patting the pillow softly. Sherlock opened his laptop, sparking a memory in John.

"I looked you up on the internet last night. " Sherlock turned, curiosity filling his features. "Anything interesting?" What did you think, tell me? John continued. ""Found your website, The Science of Deduction" Sherlock smiled, interested in knowing the other man's opinion of his blog. However the dubious look in John's eyes both surprised and confused him. Actually it left him almost speechless. It was not the reaction he had been expecting at all.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb?". Did he honestly expect John to believe that was true. "Yes and I can read your career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits and your mobile phone" So it seemed perhaps another demonstration was due soon. Sherlock dreaded it somewhat. He never received a positive reaction. John remained sceptical, still a bit distrustful. "How?" But he never received an answer as the landlady began speaking again. He'd almost forgotten she was still there.

She was blathering on about suicides… and right up his street? What was Mr Holmes' occupation anyway? "Three exactly the same". Sherlock had turned to look out onto the street. A car had arrived and parked right outside. The police. Another suicide then. "Theres been a fourth" And something was definitely different otherwise they would not be coming to see him. Footsteps pounded up the staircase, Lestrade, slightly out of breath and not all too happy to see him. "Where?" "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens" But what was different about this one. He had to know. "You know how they never leave notes? This one did." Yes! Oh yes a note! Finally, oh this was perfect. "Will you come?" Lestrade inquired, because he bloody well better because things were going nowhere. He hated to admit it, but they needed Sherlock right now. "Who's on forensics?". Anderson, not stupid bloody Anderson. He hated him and the feeling was reciprocated. "Anderson won't work with me"

During this whole conversation John was listening intently, licking his lips, almost in anticipation. But to what?. The curiosity was nearly killing him. The police were here, they needed this blokes help. What was he? Some sort of private detective? But then why would the police come to him? He was growing more and more intrigued. "I need an assistant" This was true. He needed someone to help him, to bounce ideas off instead of bouncing them off the skull. What if…? No. Probably not. "Will you come?" How many times did Lestrade have to asked him? Did Sherlock want him one his knees begging him to help? Possibly, he was overly dramatic sometimes. "Not in the police car, I'll be right behind"

Good, finally an answer. Lestrade bowed his head, almost in thanks. He turned to nod his greetings to the other members of the room, who he had not even noticed and then left. Leaving an a very excited Sherlock behind. Oh this was christmas! Four suicides and a note! He gave a little jump in the air. John couldn't tell if he was serious or not. He grabbed his coat, quickly asking Mrs Hudson to prepare some food. Really, she was his landlady not his housekeeper. Silly boy. And then he was gone.

Leaving a thoroughly confused John behind. He frowned trying to make sense of what had just happened. Sherlock was clearly the oddest person he'd ever come across and in his line of work he'd met some oddballs. There was just something about him. He couldn't put his finger on it. He didn't really pay attention to Mrs Hudson, she seemed a lovely lady but his mind was on other things. Until she mentioned his leg. "Damn my leg!" Oh crap, had he said that out loud. Bloody hell. John turned and apologised profusely, clearly embarrassed to have blurted out such a thing. She was nice though and seemed to sympathise. He ended up making the same error as Sherlock. Not your housekeeper dear.

Sherlock returned, eyeing John, his mind whirring with a thousand thoughts. "You're a doctor, In fact you're an army doctor." That made him smarter than the average person and braver and perhaps stronger as well. Interesting. Very interesting. John stood, wondering just where this conversation was leading and he really hoped he was right. "Yes". "Any good?" "Very good.". Not very modest then, unless he was telling the truth. Sherlock suspected that he was. "Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." He may not want to agree to this. But then, from what Sherlock had deduced about him, they craved the same things. John's leg was clearly evidence of that.

"Well. Yes." "Bit of trouble too I bet." There had to have been a real wound, even if it wasn't on his leg. "Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." Sherlock had entered the room further as the conversation continued. Down and to the left. A sure sign of a lie. Far too much indeed. Perfect. "Wanna see some more?" And John didn't waste a beat.

"Oh God Yes"


	4. Deductions, Deductions, Deductions

Chapter Four: Deductions, Deductions, Deductions

The cab ride was initially silent. Full of unspoken questions and curious glances. John wanted to know more and Sherlock was afraid to tell him. Yes he was the first person he'd met that had actually agreed to go with him to a crime scene, but if he learnt what he could do, would he act the same as all the rest or would he not and in turn give Sherlock hope. He took a breath. Now or never.

" Ok you've got questions"

Damn right he did. And he was quite glad Sherlock had saved him the effort of asking. "Yeah, where are we going?". You said violent deaths. Your mate said a suicide. Though mate was probably not the right word. So where were they going? Sherlock stared. Wasn't it obvious? He sighed, why were people so oblivious. "Crime scene. Next". John turned to look at his fellow passenger.

"Who are you? What do you do?". Again, it wasn't obvious? How dull.

"What do you think?".

John paused and pondered his earlier thoughts on this issue. "I'd say private detective...". Good, good, not that obvious then. "But?". "But the police don't go to private detectives." So why do they go to you I wonder. You're something else.

Sherlock smirked. Great, wonderful. A lot more smarter than your average human then. He could tell he was going to like having John around, if he stayed that is. But then he had just followed him to a crime scene. Things were looking up.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job." John didn't even take a breath. "What does that mean?". "It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me." Sherlock continued to look outside, slightly afraid of reading the other's feelings upon his face. John found this last statement very amusing. Even to go so far as to laugh out loud. Police don't consult amateurs, he told Sherlock. Sherlock looked away and then back, a sly smile touching his lips.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said "Afghanistan or Iraq?" You looked surprised." "Yes. How did you know?" "I didn't know, I saw." Yes that answered things didn't it. But what did he actually mean? "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. The conversation as you entered the room...said trained at Bart's, so army doctor. Obvious." John's eyes widened, his mouth opening in shock as the man continued. "Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists...you've been abroad but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic..wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan...Afghanistan or Iraq." Again John was floored, he didn't have a single idea on what to think. It was truly impressive.

But he wasn;t finished. He needed to know more. "You said I had a therapist" Come now, how did you know that then? "You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist." Neither of them gave the other so much as a glance, as if it would break the mood or the magic spell that gave this strange individual the power to see everything in nothing. But John broke this when Harry was mentioned. Sherlock fingered John's phone in his hand, the gears in his hard-drive spinning. "Then there's your brother. Your phone µ it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. But you're looking for a flat-share, you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches...not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already" Of course the inscription. It was all so simple once it was explained wasn;t it. So not really a magic trick.

"Harry Watson...clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father...this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is." John couldn't stop his mouth hanging open again. Ok, he admitted it, this was really impressive.

"Now, Clara µ who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently ... this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then...six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it ...he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch."

This...he was getting all this just from his bloody phone? But it was his phone! How.. he just couldn't fathom how he was doing it. "You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking." Ok time to close his mouth. The drinking, now how did he get that from his phone. Did it smell? "How can, you possibly know about the drinking?"

Sherlock had to admit that was a shot in the dark. Good one though. His lips turned upwards. He rarely guessed, guesswork was a distasteful business. "Power connection... tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right." He took a breath, preparing for the inevitable. John blinked as his phone was handed back to him. "I was right? Right about what?" Sherlock looked away and took another breath "The police don't consult amateurs."

John was impressed. He was more than impressed really. That had been absolutely incredible. He'd never seen anything like it. But he was reluctant to truly admit this. But the man did deserve something. "That. Was amazing". Whatever Sherlock had expected it wasn't that. He never got that reaction. Ever. It was usually a sarcastic or rude retort or a fist in his face, never a flat out compliment. It actually rendered him speechless for a moment. He looked back and forth between John and the outside, he wasn't sure what to say. "You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite... extraordinary." Had the man not been told that before? Odd. "Thats not what people normally say." Thats never what they say. Its usually something highly suggestible or completely impossible. "What do people normally say?" "Piss off". Sherlock couldn't help but grin at John's face, his smile was infectious. John's world had suddenly changed in this one cab ride. He was feeling it again. His heart was beating, his life was turning. Something was happening! To him! John Watson! He could tell life was never going to be dull if he stuck around Sherlock. And he didn't mind that one bit.

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><p>High above, quick eyes watched through a thousand cameras. Searching for one man. Once found, their attention was switched to the man beside him. This was different. This merited investigation and...legwork.<p>

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	5. Pink!

**Chapter Five: Pink!**

As they exited the cab, there was a new question on the tip of the detectives tongue. Had he gotten everything right? John hadn't disputed his deductions but Sherlock would rather be sure. "Did I get anything wrong?" John closely followed Sherlock, wincing as his leg hit the pavement. "Harry and me don't get on, never have" Sherlock ticked an imaginary box. "Clara and Harry split up, three months ago and they're getting a divorce" Another check, so far so good. John winced again. "Harry… is short for Harriet". This stopped Sherlock in his tracks. Harriet? Harriet? Harry was his sister! Stupid, stupid, stupid. How did he miss that? Sherlock grimaced, angry at himself for completely missing that clue.

John didn't understand why he'd been brought here. Yes he agreed, yes he was fascinated by this impossible man. But why did he need him? And why wouldn't he answer that simple question? He's off in his own little world isn't he? They approached the crime scene, a woman was waiting in front of a police car, looking upon Sherlock with disdain. What was her problem?

Great, Donavan is here too, how lovely. She never liked him, and would rather he not even be there. That much was obvious from her face alone. And she seemed to not understand why Lestrade would want him there. Perhaps it was merely her obvious stupidity, more likely the fact that she'd never liked what he was able to do and would much rather him behind bars than behind the crime scenes tape. Sherlock slipped her a knowing smile. Yes he knew what she thought. Little though there was running through her curly haired head. His mouth snarled as he proclaimed her an old "friend". He lifted the tape for John, wanting him to follow, insisting for him to follow. And wishing for Sally to shut her big mouth and to leave the new person in his life alone.

"Freaks here, bringing him in"

John didn't like this woman. Not, one, bit. For starters she showed Sherlock zero respect. No doubt she knew what he could do. Second of all she was rude. But it was the word "freak" that sealed his opinions. That was uncalled for. It was clear from looking at his face, that the detective had been called this many times. This alone was sad, but what gave this _woman _the right to call Sherlock a freak? He hated bullies, hated those who treated others with hatred and contempt because they were a little different. He quickly limped forward, not wanting to be left behind by his long legged flatmate.

Sherlock turned in a circle as he regarded the pavement. Searching for any clues that might be useful. But there were none. That was fine, the real fun was inside the house. But who should come out the front door? _Anderson._Sherlock inwardly shuddered. He hated Anderson just as much as he hated Sally. The two of them were a pair, a match made in heaven, if it existed. Which is why they had probably begun sleeping together. Anderson was wearing the ridiculous get up that Sherlock always refused to wear at crime scenes. At least it was a hell of a lot better than that stupid talking dinosaur t-shirt he'd last scene the forensic scientist wearing. He wasted no time in deducting circles around Anderson and Sally, a little revenge for their treatment in front of someone that he was sort of, trying to impress.

"And I assumed she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees" Sherlock smirked and entered the building. John was secretly pleased that he'd gotten the pair back for the earlier comments. He couldn't resist giving Sally's knees a quick glance as he walked past either.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had brought someone with him. He never brought people. Sherlock didnt even have people. Which was why Lestrade couldn't help but ask who he was. It couldn't be a friend, Sherlock didnt have those. He'd known him for five years and not once had he seen him with anyone. "He's with me" Sherlock replied, daring Lestrade to contradict him.<p>

He gestured for John to put on the blue suit, even though, John noticed, that he was not planning to wear one him self. It was probably the coat. Which was of the epic sort. Like those ones he'd seen in Doctor Who. All swishy and… ok he needed to stop looking at that coat. The three of them climbed a long, winding flight of stairs leading into a small room. With a dead body. His heart was pounding. Oh god, a dead body. Ok he should be used to this by now. He smoothed his features into one of indifference and watched Sherlock get to work. "Shut up" John looked confused, Lestrade as well. "I wasn't saying anything" "You were thinking, its annoying". Lestrade couldn't believe his attitude and looked to John. Do you believe this? His eyes said. I hope you know what you've got yourself into. Poor sod.

He leaned over the corpse. Everyone else in the room simply faded into the background. All that mattered was the corpse and the secrets it held. RACHE. Scratched with fingernails on left hand, so left-handed. RACHE, Revenge? He shook his head, deleting that information from his mind. No, Rachel. Must find out who Rachel is. He knelt, sweeping back the coat and felt the fabric of hers. Wet. Pocket holds umbrella. But its dry. Rain, but she didn't use her umbrella. Conclusion, it was to wet or windy to do so. Underneath of coat collar, also wet. Turned up against the wind. Conclusions correct. Sherlock pulled out the magnifying glass. Bracelet, clean, polished. Earrings, clean, necklace clean. Wedding ring, dirty. Interesting. Conclusions, unhappily married, around 10 years. He deftly removed the ring. Inside, clean. Outside, dirty. Regularly removed. Serial adulterer.

He smiled, his deductions complete. Lestrade noticed, watching as the young man stood, removing his gloves. "Got anything?". Anything? How about everything? "Not much". Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, as Stupidity Incarnate made himself known. "She's German". Sherlock needed to get rid of him. "Rache, german for revenge. She could be trying to te-" Sherlock reached for the door and slammed it in his face. "Yes thank you for your input" Not. His fingers flew across his phone, searching for the appropriate weather forecast.

"So she's german then?" John watched Sherlock intently. "Of course not, from out of town though, intended to stay only one night, before returning home to Cardiff" John raised his eyebrows, where had he gotten that notion? And why was he on his phone? "So far, so obvious" Wait, whats obvious? He was looking at the body and he wasn't getting it. And now Sherlock wanted him to examine to body, was that why he'd been brought here then? None of the other doctors wanted to work with him. "Yes because you need me" Sherlock quipped. John turned to Lestrade to see if this was true. "Yes I do, god help me". Sherlock was calling his name again. He really needed to pay attention. He wanted John to examine the body, but surely, the police….he stole a look behind him, Lestrade quickly saying he could do whatever he liked. John sighed and limped over to the body, pulling his leg out in front of him.

Sherlock crouched beside him, as eager to watch him in action as John had been. "What am I doing here?" "Helping me make a point." "Im supposed to be helping you pay the rent." In the midst of all this it seemed John had already made his decision. "Well this is more fun". Fun? Sherlock thought this was fun? There was a bloody body on the floor between them!

"Perfectly sound analysis but I was hoping you would go deeper" I was talking intellectual fun John. Its not about the body, its about the mystery, the case! Surely John wasn't going to be like them, refusing to see the truth behind the veiled words. He was still here though, he could have left at any time but here he was.

Lestrade returned, watching the two of them. John had leaned closer, resignation filling his features as he examined the corpse in front of him. Sherlock watched him, his pale eyes never missing a detail. Satisfied John sat back up and gave his diagnosis. "Asphyxiation, probably, passed out, chocked on her own vomit." Sherlock turned and gave Lestrade a look. See, he'd been right to bring him. Could your stupid doctors have told you the same that quickly. Johns standing in Sherlock's eyes rose a few more centimetres.

John's eyes widened as he realised this was the fourth serial suicide, he'd been reading about those. And here he was right in the thick of it. That mean, perhaps they weren't suicides at all. Lestrade was talking again. John listened as Sherlock rattled off a list of facts he couldn't possibly have known without personally knowing the victim. It was amazing. It really was. "Thats brilliant". He couldn't help it, he gave up even bothering to hide the amazement in his face. How did he do it? It was so simple, so basic once explained. But so magical without the facts.

Briliant? They'd known each other for less than a day and two compliments all ready? Sherlock couldn't believe it. He'd been far too surprised today. Fortunately Lestrade had opened his mouth so the dark detective had a good reason to not press the subject. Dear god, what was it like in the funny little heads if they couldn't grasp the obvious like he did? Must be so dull. But for their benefit, at least John's, he'd explain further.

"Her coat is slightly damp; she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too; she's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused: no just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but not more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff." He raised his phone to Lestrade and then John.

"Thats fantastic!" Really? John, just who are you? Did he fascinate and impress him that much? Sherlock was rather flattered. But he wondered if John realised how much he currently sounded like a fanboy. "You know you do that out loud?" I quite like it, don't stop.

John almost blushed. He'd embarrassed him. Great. "Sorry, Ill shut up". "No… its fine" Sherlock seemed rather pleased. John suspected he rarely received compliments or anything much in the way of positive words, if this night had been anything to go by. Minutes later, another small demonstration. Droplets on the lady's leg, stated clearly to one consulting detective that she carried a suitcase. But there wasn't a suitcase. At least not in the room.

Suitcase, suitcase, now where was it? Was it in another room? Had they taken it for evidence.. the idiots. He blamed Anderson of course. He always blamed Anderson. "There wasn't a case" What? He raised his head. No, there had to have been a case! "Say that again" "There was never any suitcase".

Sherlock was up and running from the room, yelling at the top of his voice as he sped down the stairs, rambling at the top of his voice about the suicides, no, John had been right, they _were_ murders. Which meant a serial killer. John peered over the edge, too stunned really by everything that had happened to contemplate that he really should be following him right now.

Sherlock stopped in mid insult. They took her case. Her murder took her case! Oh he was thick! Of course! The killer had driven her here! No, no no John. Look at her hair! If she took that much care in her clothing she'd never leave with her hair in such a sta-. Oooh. Oh! Oh John you have just inspired me. Sherlock grinned, his mind exploding with delight over what he'd just realised. He clapped. He'd made a mistake, the killer had made a big mistake. He sped down the rest of the stairs, giving Lestrade orders as he went.

"But what mistake?" Sherlock turned and run up a few flights of stairs to stare up at his captive audience.

"PINK!"

* * *

><p>The Goverment watched the young detective leave, hot on a new case, lost in his own little world. Excellent. That left the doctor alone. Unfortunately for the plan to work it would require…l<em>egwork<em>. How nauseating. Still, the things he had to do for Sherlock. The Government, reached for his phone and texted_her_.


End file.
